Death & the Viking's Daughter

by Loretta Ross

  “A museum in Pittsburgh,” Death said.

  “Yeah.” The man was surprised. “You’ve heard of us?”

  “I have. And recently. You specialize in the influence of Germanic and northern European heritage on American history.”

  “That’s right.” The man leaned around Wren and offered Death his hand. “Andrew Markham.”

  “Death Bogart. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Are you another academic?”

  Death grinned, the firelight catching the planes of his face and finding red highlights in his close-cropped hair. “No. I’m a private investigator, actually. I’m going to take a wild guess here. That project you worked on … was it an archaeological dig in a bog in Belgium?”

  Markham leaned back. “Wow. You’re good. Are you sure you’re not a psychic? How did you figure that one out?”

  “Just a hunch. You’ve recently discovered that one of your artifacts is a forgery. A reconstructed clay pot. It came from that dig, didn’t it?”

  “Ah, hell,” another of the Vikings said. “Did you let him get away with one, Marky?”

  Markham shrugged and looked embarrassed. “What was I supposed to do? Hold his hand every minute?”

  “Wait,” Death said. “You know who took it?”

  “Oh, I think we all know who took it,” the heckler said.

  “It’s not like I can prove it,” Markham said. He turned his attention back to Death. “Let me just put it this way. The Benders are supposed to come to the festival tomorrow. If they show up at your girlfriend’s auction, don’t let them wander around on their own.”

  “How long have you known that the Benders—both the Benders do this?”

  “The old man more so, I think. Henry’s more worried about getting caught.”

  “Right. So how long have you known?”

  “Gosh.” Markham looked around at his fellow Vikings as if taking a survey. “Decades?”

  “We try not to ever leave him unattended anywhere there’s something he might take a fancy to,” Neils Larsen said from the other side of the fire. “He still tries to swipe things, but you can call him on it and take them back.”

  “What do you say to him?” Wren asked. She’d admitted to herself a long time ago that she’d make a terrible cop. She had a feeling that if she saw someone steal something, she’d be too embarrassed for them to be able to react.

  “You pretend like you think he’s done it by mistake,” Jacob Larsen said. “Oh, Mr. Bender, you’ve slipped that vase into your pocket by mistake again. Oh, Mr. Bender, I’m afraid you’ve gotten them switched up. This is your copy and the one you put in the box is our original.”

  “But you’ve never done anything about it?”

  “You’ve got to understand, my dear,” Neils Larsen said. “Claudio Bender is a major donor to the university. He’s given hundreds of thousands of dollars to support our museums and educational projects. And most of the things he tries to take aren’t particularly valuable. Not in dollar terms. It’s just never been worth it to alienate him for the sake of making a point. Although I’m guessing he’s finally overstepped his bounds.” Neils looked at Death. “What did he steal that you’re tracking?”

  “I can’t prove that it was him,” Death said. “Not yet. But I suspect he was behind switching an oil painting for a forgery.”

  “A painting? Really? Doesn’t seem his style. Why would he want it?”

  “The woman in the painting was a great-great aunt,” Death explained. “Maybe three greats. Anyway, she was an opera singer. The painting is of her dressed as a character in the Ring Cycle.”

  “Ah.” Larsen nodded. “Okay. That sounds about right then.”

  Randy was sitting on Death’s right, between him and Wren’s mother. He leaned over now and hissed at his brother. “Show them the picture!”

  Death hesitated, but two or three of the reenactors were looking at him questioningly. He took a quick breath.

  “Ah, one other thing.” He chose his words carefully. “In the fall of 1985, a man’s remains were found about a mile from here, on the other side of the lake. You might have heard about it?”

  He looked around the fire carefully, but no one looked enlightened.

  “What did he die of ?” a woman asked across the flames.

  “They don’t know. They’ve never been able to identify him or determine a cause of death.”

  “Probably a native burial, don’t you think?” Markham said. “Or an old grave from the pioneer days? They tended to bury their dead at home, you know.”

  “No, this was recent. Sometime in the ten years before he was found, they think. Wren and I have gotten interested in the case because he wound up buried on private property. We’re in the process of buying the house his grave is attached to, and we thought it would be nice if we could find out who he is and what happened to him. The sheriff’s department had a facial reconstruction done from the skull. Can I show you a picture of it? We thought, since he was found close to the supper club, maybe he was a member or was connected to someone who was.”

  “You got it with you?” Markham asked. He seemed interested.

  Death took out his phone and brought up the photo from the sheriff’s department website.

  “Sorry for the anachronism,” Wren said sheepishly.

  “I think we can make an exception for a dead body,” Neils said.

  Death passed his phone around, tracking it from hand to hand and watching the faces of the Vikings as they looked at it. It was hard to tell, in the shifting firelight, but he saw nothing to suggest recognition from anyone there.

  It came back to him without anyone offering a name for the corpse. Neils stood and took up his mead.

  “Whoever he is, may he rest in peace,” he said, lifting his cup.

  The others around the fire followed suit and they drank in silence.

  Like Wren, Randy had to work the next day and had refrained from the honey mead. He drove them back to Wren’s house through the dark countryside in his brother’s Jeep. The senior Morgans went into the house to get ready for bed and Randy waited behind the wheel while Death kissed his future bride good night on her front porch.

  Death was relaxed and looked sleepy when he returned and climbed in the passenger seat, but he was far from drunk. He’d been a Marine a long time, and while he never made a habit of binge drinking, he’d drunk much more than honey mead on several occasions.

  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “So what did you think?” he asked.

  “About what? The Vikings?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh. I thought there’d be more weapons and armor. And horned helmets,” Randy said.

  “Yeah, Jacob tells me there’s a lot more to Vikings than what people tend to imagine. And apparently the horned helmets aren’t really a thing. There are, like, two representations of horned helmets in all of the material they’ve found. The one actual helmet is too flimsy to be real armor and the other one is a carving of some kind. The experts can’t agree about them, but most seem to think they were ceremonial and maybe represented some deity or something. They sure didn’t wear them into battle. And did you know that Vikings didn’t call themselves Vikings? Viking was a verb. They would go viking. It meant going on raids.”

  “Not Vikings. No horned helmets. No dragon on the prow of the longboat. These guys are just killing all my dreams of being an old-

  school marauder.” Randy sighed elaborately. “It was kind of cool, though. And you know you’re right about Bender now.” He slowed down and took a left turn onto the street that made up the east side of the square. “None of them recognized Bob, though.”

  “No. I need to get hold of Jackson in the morning and see if he learned anything about Trevor Burt.”

  “Or maybe not,” Randy countered.

  “Huh
?”

  “Maybe you don’t need to get hold of Jackson in the morning.”

  “Why not?”

  “’Cause it looks like he’s waiting for you now.”

  Death opened his eyes and sat up as they pulled up beside Jackson’s cruiser. Randy turned off the engine and the deputy jumped out to meet them, shivering and blowing on his hands.

  “Where have you been? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Is it warm in your office? We should go up to your office.”

  Death raised an eyebrow. “Cold?”

  “Of course not. Why would I be cold? I’ve only been sitting here waiting for you for almost two hours. How come you weren’t answering your phone?”

  “Your phone never rang,” Randy said to Death.

  “Oh, yeah.” He flinched a little guiltily. “We were out at the Viking village. I didn’t want to be rude with the twenty-first-century technology, so I put it on airplane mode.” He unlocked his door and let Jackson go in first. “You don’t have heat in your car?”

  “I’m not gonna run the engine and burn gas when I’m just sitting around. I’m responsible about spending county money.”

  Death gave him a side look as they climbed the stairs.

  Orlando Jackson sighed. “Okay, and the thermostat might be out. It overheats if I sit at idle.”

  They went in Death’s office and Jackson dropped into a chair. Randy went through to the apartment for a glass of milk and Death turned up the thermostat before circling his desk and taking his own seat.

  “What did you find out about Bob?” Randy demanded, returning. “Is it Trevor Burt? It is, isn’t it?”

  Jackson held up one finger and hesitated a second before speaking. “It … might be. We’re looking into it. It’s a distinct possibility. Proving it could be tricky, though. So far we haven’t found any relatives and Burt was never reported missing. There’s no DNA, no dental records, nothing.”

  “So what did you find out about him?” Death asked.

  “He disappeared from Cincinnati the summer of 1978. Dropped off the face of the earth. Since then he hasn’t had a driver’s license, held a job, filed taxes, or applied for any kind of public assistance. Cincinnati police have been looking for him since early September of that year. Nothing.”

  “If no one had filed a missing person’s report, why were the police looking for him?” Death’s eyes narrowed. “What was he wanted for?”

  “Failure to appear,” Jackson said. “Trevor Burt skipped bail on a sexual assault charge.”

  twenty

  “Are you an important man?”

  “Yes, I am. I’m probably the most important man you’ll ever have the privilege to meet. Now go away. I don’t like children.”

  “Oh, don’t worry.” Matthew Keystone grinned, undeterred. “There aren’t any children here. I’m Matthew and this is my cousin Mercy. We’re here to be your escort.”

  Claudio Bender made a noise deep in his throat and tried to drive his red mobility scooter past the young Keystones, but there wasn’t room in the crowded club building. His son, Henry, tall and pale and silent, followed him with drooping shoulders and downcast eyes.

  “I thought you said you were important,” Matthew said.

  “I did say that. I am important. Go away.”

  “But if you’re important, you need an escort. Important people can’t just go wandering around like normal people. Nobody would know you’re important then.”

  Death stood off to the side with Edgar and the sheriff and watched. Around them the auction was in full swing. Wren was in a room off to his left, selling “genuine 1970s kitsch.” Roy was auctioning off furniture down the hall to his right, and Sam was outside answering questions about the property, which was set to go on the block later that afternoon.

  “Leona sicced the kids on him,” Salvy said.

  Death grinned. “They’re the best shoplifting deterrent I’ve ever seen.”

  “I have an escort,” Bender was saying to Matthew. “That’s what my son is for.”

  Mercy tipped her head to look up at the tall man. “He’s not an escort,” she objected. “He’s your son. He should have an escort too. Isn’t he important?”

  Henry cut his eyes toward his father and Death had the distinct feeling that he was waiting for the answer. Claudio just waved his hands in front of him as if to brush off the question. “Bah. You’re annoying me. Go away.”

  “You don’t mean that,” Mercy said cheerfully. “Here, would you like for one of us to push your chair?”

  “No. I don’t need you to push my chair. It’s motorized. Go away.”

  “We could get Bitty Sam to ride on your lap,” Matthew offered. “He’d love that.”

  “I know you said you don’t like children,” Mercy chirped. “But you’d love Bitty Sam. Everybody loves Bitty Sam. And that would make you happy.”

  Salvy shifted away from the wall. “As entertaining as this is …” He walked over to the group. “Excuse me, Mr. Bender?”

  Henry didn’t react. Claudio turned immediately. “Yes! Thank heavens. Will you remove these children?”

  The sheriff held up a big finger and pointed it at the older man. “Not you,” he said. He turned to Henry. “You. Henry Bender, yes?”

  Henry looked up and what little color there was in his face drained away.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m Sheriff Salvadore. May I speak with you outside for a moment?”

  Claudio spun his scooter around and peered up at the sheriff querulously. “What do you want to speak to him about?”

  “That’s between me and your son. If you could just excuse us, sir?”

  Henry went along obediently, holding his hands in front of him as if they were in invisible handcuffs. He was breathing fast and shallow and his eyes had a glazed-over look.

  Claudio followed after.

  “I will not excuse you. Do you know who I am? Do you have a warrant? I’ll have your badge for this.”

  Since the sale was taking place inside the building and it was too early for most people to be leaving, the entryway was empty save for Leona and Doris and a trickle of late arrivals. The double doors were propped open, admitting a splash of brilliant sunshine and a wash of cold air. Salvy stopped just inside it and guided Henry to a seat against the wall. Death and Edgar had tagged along but hung back now and watched the sheriff work.

  “Mr. Bender, your son is not under arrest,” he said. “I merely want to ask him a few questions to help me with a case I’m working on. If you don’t mind.”

  “I do mind. We’re not even from your jurisdiction. What could he possibly know about your case?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” Salvy turned back to Henry. “An old newspaper story concerning you has recently come to light. About you piloting a private jet here when you were fifteen. In the picture that accompanied the story, you’re standing next to a man named Trevor Burt, who’s described as a ‘longtime friend.’ Can you tell me where Mr. Burt is now?”

  Henry stared at him, speechless.

  “He doesn’t know,” his father said impatiently. “Henry! Tell the man you don’t know.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I don’t know. I don’t know anything.”

  “Can you tell me the last time you saw him?”

  “He doesn’t remember.”

  “Mr. Bender,” Salvy said, turning to the older man. “Will you please allow your son to speak for himself ?”

  “He. Doesn’t. Remember.” Claudio turned his head and sniffed. “I don’t know why you’re even looking for Burt.”

  “He’s wanted in Cincinnati. He failed to appear on an assault charge.”

  Claudio snorted inelegantly. “Ha. That was almost forty years ago. The statute of limitations has long since expired.”

  “Actually,
it hasn’t. You see, when someone skips bail or goes into hiding to avoid a charge, the clock freezes on the statute of limitations until such time as they’re found.”

  “Well, it hardly matters. That has nothing to do with my son.”

  “Maybe it does and maybe it doesn’t.” Salvy returned his focus to Henry. “In the fall of 1985, a body was found in the woods not far from here. I have here a facial reconstruction that was done on the skull—”

  Henry jerked away physically and put his hands over his face. “I don’t want to see it. I don’t know anything. I don’t know anything.”

  Claudio shot out of his scooter and stood ramrod straight, quivering with anger, in front of Salvy. He still didn’t look him in the eye—the sheriff stood six-foot-four—but what he lacked in height he made up for in anger. “This has nothing to do with us,” he said. “We did not come out here to be interrogated by the local fuzz like common scofflaws. Henry! Wait for me in the car.”

  Henry looked uncertainly between his father and the sheriff.

  “Is my son under arrest?” Claudio demanded.

  “No,” Salvy admitted reluctantly.

  “Go to the car, Henry. Do as you’re told.”

  Henry rose and headed for the exit. At the threshold he stopped and turned back, giving Salvy a desperate, searching look.

  “I don’t know who she was,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen her. I’m sorry.” And then he was gone.

  Claudio resumed his seat and his scooter whirred to life. “If you have any further questions, you can address them to my lawyer,” he said and drove off after his son.

  “Well,” Salvy said when he was gone. “That was something.”

  “Did he really call you the fuzz?” Death asked.

  “He did. And in the same sentence with ‘scofflaw,’ no less.”

  “What now?” Edgar asked.

  “Well, I think it’s pretty clear that Henry knows something,” Salvy said.

  “I’m pretty sure I know what it is, too,” Death said. “But me knowing it doesn’t help without proof, or an admission on Henry Bender’s part—that’s the only thing I can think of that might give us a chance of finding out what happened to Ingrid Larsen.”